


I Am Not the Burning Bush

by dreamlittleyo



Category: Tron (Movies), Tron - All Media Types, Tron: Legacy (2010)
Genre: Blasphemy, Circuit Touching, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Program Sex, Sexual Content, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000, Wordcount: 5.000-15.000, Wordcount: Over 1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-08
Updated: 2011-04-08
Packaged: 2017-10-17 18:20:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/179831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Flynn and Tron both want the same thing, but nothing is ever that simple.<br/></p><div class="center">
<br/><img/></div>
            </blockquote>





	I Am Not the Burning Bush

**Author's Note:**

  * For [YanaGoya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/YanaGoya/gifts).



Clu doesn't have time for this.

The second tower is nearly complete in the ISO sector—the surrounding Grid structures have been reconfigured to allow for the added strain of increased traffic. Everything should be falling into place. And instead the energy surges have grown more frequent and less predictable than ever.

There are more bugs in the system, too, and Clu can only contain so much chaos at once.

He needs Tron focused—he needs Tron battling those Gridbugs—and instead he's stuck watching the security program stare uselessly off towards the horizon.

The beacon is unlit.

Flynn has been gone for two hundred millicycles. He'll probably be gone for several hundred more. But at the moment that's not stopping Tron from standing on Clu's balcony, staring at the dark spot in the clouds as though his scrutiny might accomplish something if he wills it hard enough.

Tron must hear Clu approach, but he doesn't turn from the horizon or acknowledge that he's no longer alone on the balcony. Clu could take it personally, but he knows perfectly well how focused Tron can get when his thoughts are on Kevin Flynn.

"You won't bring him back any sooner by staring at an empty sky," Clu says. Tron's face remains passive, but his eyes darken fractionally.

"Don't you have more pressing things to do?"

"Says the program who's planted himself on my balcony for the past fifth of a millicycle."

Clu sidles closer, moving to stand at Tron's elbow and clasping his hands behind his back. His cloak sways on a subtle wind. He glances down and sees Tron's hands clasped tightly around the glowing balcony railing.

Tron doesn't try to justify his presence. His eyes stay focused on the horizon. The blue panels of his armor give a brief, bright pulse and then fade to their normal luminosity.

Clu watches Tron's hair ruffle unevenly in the wind, and has to tamp down a wave of irritation.

"Why do you do this to yourself?" he demands.

"Do what?" Tron asks too quickly.

Clu doesn't bother answering. A sheepish edge finally tarnishes the deliberate calm of Tron's expression, and the silence that settles between them is unsettled. There are things that always remain unspoken, disagreements they never directly address.

Clu thinks it might be time to change the pattern.

"You could _tell_ him, you know," he says. The way his assertion finally draws Tron's attention—the way Tron's eyes go wide and hone in on him as Tron's jaw drops in surprise—is more satisfying than Clu expects.

The delay before Tron recovers enough to counter the accusation is even better.

"I don't know what you're—"

"Yes you do," Clu interrupts. "I've seen the way you look at him. And I know you better than you think."

Tron's jaw snaps shut and he jerks his gaze sharply away from Clu—back towards the horizon at first and then, when he realizes where he's looking, down to the buildings below. As though Clu can't still tell exactly where his thoughts are.

"You _should_ tell him," Clu says in a conversational tone. "I think it would do you good to get everything off your chest."

"Why are you saying these things?" Tron asks. He sounds miserable. He sounds betrayed. He sounds confused and lost, and for some reason all Clu feels is a raw thrill at having called him out.

But he's not trying to be cruel. No matter how strong his irritation, he never would have trampled over their unspoken pact of silence if he didn't have more than empty taunts in his arsenal.

"Because," he says, watching Tron's face carefully now. "I've also seen the way he looks at you."

Tron's whole body goes rigid at Clu's words, and maybe Clu doesn't know Tron as well as he thought.

Instead of hopeful disbelief, or a demand to know how Clu can possibly know that—or any other of a hundred plausible reactions—Tron turns on his heel and leaves without a word.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Flynn has been gone longer than he meant to, but he's surprised at the chilly distance he finds between Clu and Tron when he lands his Lightjet in the central pavilion of Alpha Sector.

They both look pleased enough to see him, though of course Clu's first words draw attention to the length of Flynn's absence.

"Relax, man," says Flynn. "We've got plenty of time to take a look at your list of problem areas."

"Still," says Clu. "We should get started at once."

"Sure," Flynn agrees. Then turning from Clu and finding Tron watching him, he asks, "And how have _you_ been, old friend?" He claps Tron on the shoulder and smiles at the way the casual touch makes Tron's circuits flare brightly.

Tron doesn't smile at the contact, though. If anything, he shifts away too soon.

"I'm well," says Tron. "Patrols have been eventful, but the crises have all been manageable."

"That's what I like to hear," Flynn says, though worry heightens in his chest. Maybe things are half as jacked as Clu claims if Tron is using words like 'crisis'. Maybe it's good that he's got the whole day ahead of him in the outside world, and time enough for several rounds in and out of the portal.

He lets Clu take the lead and pretends not to notice the distance Tron between them.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

"I don't understand," Clu says when Flynn has gone and it's just him, Tron and a grudging silence in his office.

"What don't you understand?" Tron asks, sounding tired and put-upon.

"Your refusal to tell him how you feel," Clu says. Exasperation darkens his expression.

Tron looks affronted now. Anger flashes in his eyes, and he moves for the exit, shouldering his way past Clu and not deigning to respond.

Clu could let him go. After all, there's every chance this conversation will only bring them to blows. He's never been Tron's confidant. He doesn't know if the program even needs one.

But something stubborn in his chest has been triggered, like a challenge issued, and from across the room Clu closes and locks the door with a thought.

Tron spins, furious, and glares at Clu as he growls, "Open the door."

Instead of complying, Clu circles closer, though not so close as to fall within range for an attack. For all that he feels like he's deliberately goading an oncoming storm right now, he's not looking to get into a physical altercation.

"Are you that embarrassed by the things you want from him?" Clu asks, eyebrows knitting together as he crosses his arms over his chest. "Because I promise, the things he wants to do to you? Are a lot worse."

" _Don't_ ," Tron snarls, turning his back on Clu and facing the unrelenting planes of the sealed door.

"Why?" Clu asks. "Because you're afraid I'm betraying his confidence? He hasn't said a word of this to me."

"Then you can't know," Tron says. Against all logic, he actually sounds relieved.

"Of course I can," says Clu. "I've got a unique perspective on Users. On _this_ User especially. Trust me. I know what I'm talking about."

"Then stop talking," Tron says. Gruff and unhappy.

"What is your problem?" Clu demands, eyebrows high on his forehead. "I'm telling you, you could have what you want. That's _good_ news."

"I can't have any such thing." Tron's voice is a rumble of barely contained emotion, and when he finally turns his eyes on Clu, they're wide and terrified.

"Why not?" Clu demands. "Why can't you just… fuck him and get it over with?" The word feels filthy and powerful on Clu's lips. It's a User's word. His skin tingles at the way it makes Tron flinch.

"Please don't say that," Tron whispers. His eyes drop closed, and his shoulders sag.

" _Why_?" Clu presses. Calculated and firm. "Why does it bother you?"

"Because," Tron replies darkly. "It's blasphemy,"

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Flynn doesn't mean to say anything. But Tron's not usually one to indulge in unpredictable moods.

Flynn knows he hasn't been around as much as he should. He has too many demands on his time these days, and the Grid is one item on too long a list of top priorities. He knows it's not necessarily his business if something is bothering his favorite security subroutine, much as he has to fight down the ludicrous instincts telling him that _everything_ about Tron is his business.

Tron hasn't said anything, and his silence has been deliberate enough that Flynn should leave well enough alone.

But Flynn has never been good at minding his own business, and the second he has Tron alone he asks, "You okay, buddy?"

Tron stares at him too sharply, and the empty corridor feels like it's echoing tension back and forth between them. Flynn's not sure what emotions he's seeing in Tron's eyes, but the frontrunner looks a hell of a lot like guilt.

Which gives him pause for a moment, because what can Tron possibly have to feel guilty for?

"Why wouldn't I be okay?"

It's not an answer. Flynn doesn't think the evasion is an accident.

"You tell me," he says, edging forward until he's close enough to touch. Tron's circuits flare almost white at the sudden proximity, and Flynn very carefully keeps his hands at his sides.

"Talk to me," he insists softly as Tron's circuits return to their usual blue glow.

"We should get back to—"

"No," Flynn interrupts. "We should stay right here and you should tell me what's wrong."

Tron's eyes cut away, gaze darting to the floor, the wall, the corridor past Flynn's shoulder. An impassive mask falls over his features, and frustration settles like a tangible force beneath Flynn's ribs. Maybe it shouldn't be hitting him so hard, but having Tron shut down on him like this stings like the worst kind of rejection.

They're closer than this. They're better friends than this. At least Flynn thought they were.

The implied mistrust makes him wonder if he's had it wrong all along.

The alternative—that Tron might've finally noticed Flynn's warmer looks and taken offense at the attention—isn't one he can bring himself to ponder right now.

He's not surprised when Tron tries to flee instead of responding. There's a quick flash of intent in the program's eyes before he moves, and it's enough warning for Flynn to put himself directly in Tron's path. Tron stops short, but not short enough—they're standing too close now, nearly touching, thrown off balance by the abrupt termination of Tron's misguided momentum.

Flynn has the surreal revelation that Tron is shorter than him. Not by much—all of an inch at most—but from this close even that minimal distance is noticeable.

Then Tron's gaze drops to Flynn's mouth. Focuses there for all of a second before returning to Flynn's eyes with a guilty start.

Flynn moves without thinking.

Tron's mouth yields instantly beneath his, and Flynn's eyes drift closed. Tron's hair is soft between his fingers, Tron's body an unrelenting line of tension, and when Tron reaches out to touch, his hands settle with bruising strength and he drags Flynn firmly against him.

But at the first hint of Flynn's tongue past his lips, Tron pushes him away and backpedals so suddenly Flynn nearly lands on his ass. He regains his footing before he actually topples over, and all he can do is stare as Tron backs away, putting unwelcome space between them and edging down the corridor.

"Tron, what are you—?"

"I'm sorry," Tron says in a sharp voice. "I'm… I'm sorry."

"What the hell are you sorry for?" Flynn asks.

But Tron has reached the door at the end of the corridor now, and instead of answering he disappears through it.

"Fuck," Flynn mutters, and wonders what he's supposed to do now.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Clu escorts Flynn to the portal. The fact that Tron isn't there tells him something isn't right.

"What happened?" Clu asks. Flynn looks at him sharply, almost angrily, but quickly deflates into a tired slouch.

"I guess I fucked up," says Flynn. He shrugs sheepishly.

"What did you do?"

"Does it matter what I did?" Flynn asks. "Clearly I scared him off."

"Clearly," Clu concedes. "But yes, it matters. I can't help you if I don't know specifics."

Flynn gives him a suspicious look and crosses his arms, cocking his head to the side.

"Help me?" he says. "Help me with what? What do you know about it?"

Clu tamps down a fresh surge of exasperation. He reminds himself it isn't his problem. It certainly isn't his business. If Flynn and Tron want to wind themselves up into inefficient knots over their inconvenient mutual attraction, it's not Clu's job to clean up the mess.

But it _is_ his problem in a way. As long as it interferes with the work he needs to accomplish on the Grid, this mess is definitely his problem.

"I know you want him," Clu finally says. Unapologetic and direct. Flynn's eyes flash wide at the untempered statement of fact.

"Woah." Flynn uncrosses his arms. "Okay, that's. Wow. I didn't see that coming." He falls silent for a moment, pensive, and Clu doesn't interrupt his thoughts.

"How long have you known?" Flynn finally asks.

"Does it matter?"

"No, I suppose it doesn't." Flynn sighs and scrubs a hand over the back of his neck.

Clu feels irritation and pity in equal measures.

"Tell me," Clu presses.

Flynn gives him a long, considering look and finally says, "I kissed him."

"Is that all?"

Flynn laughs, dry and disbelieving, and says, "Is that _all_? He _ran away_ , dude. I think that's plenty." The laughter fades from his voice and his eyes, and Flynn's face falls somber. "Look, I know this kind of puts you in an awkward position, but… Would you tell him I'm sorry?"

"Why?"

"You're kidding, right? I _kissed_ him. And it's pretty clear he's not interested."

"That's not why he ran away, Flynn."

"Really," says Flynn. Drained. Skeptical. "Then why?"

Clu doesn't even consider giving anything but the full truth. Tron's secrets aren't his to keep, and nothing will get resolved if _someone_ doesn't show all their cards.

"Because he's in love with you," Clu says.

Flynn's eyebrows rise high on his forehead and his jaw drops comically.

"That's not possible," Flynn says when he finally gets it together enough to respond.

"I know what I'm talking about."

"He's a computer program."

"That doesn't seem to matter to _you_. Why should it constrain him?"

That point, at least, seems to stop Flynn short. He gets a considering look in his eyes, weighing and calculating as he tries to work through the puzzle.

"I still don't understand," he finally says. "If he has those kinds of feelings for me, then why not just _tell_ me? Why freak out over one kiss?"

"Because it's wrong," says Clu. He doesn't say it with any conviction—it's not _his_ belief, after all—but it's the crux of the problem, and he lays it down without apology. "You're a User. You might have noticed that inspires a certain kind of reverence."

"Yeah, but… he's _Tron_. He should know better."

"He's still a computer program," says Clu. ' _Just like the rest of them_ ,' he thinks. "And you're a User."

"So, what, he thinks he's unworthy?" Flynn's posture, which had slowly begun to turn stiff and uncomfortable, tightens with agitation. There's a bright hint of frustration flashing behind his eyes as he follows the path Clu's words are laying out for him.

"He thinks it's blasphemy," Clu says.

"That's bullshit."

"You and I both know that," says Clu. "It's Tron who needs convincing."

"How?" Kevin asks.

"You need to show him he's wrong," says Clu. "You need to give him what he's so convinced he can't have."

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

It's two long days before Flynn can return to the Grid. He spends as much time as he can with Sam. He argues with Alan about Encom's stubborn, narrow-minded board of directors. He completes what feels like a lifetime's supply of paperwork at his desk in his top-floor office.

But mostly he thinks about everything Clu said. He can't get Clu's words out of his mind, and they turn restless circles in his thoughts, over and over, until his head is spinning and he's got even less idea than before of what exactly he's supposed to do.

' _Show him_ ,' he thinks darkly. How the fuck is he supposed to do that?

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

When Clu sees the beacon light up on the horizon, he knows he has to move quickly.

He also knows he has to be smart. Tron is the best fighter on the Grid, better even than Clu with his own auspicious origins, which means Clu will need underhanded tactics and every advantage in his arsenal in order to put his plan into effect.

He sends a signal the same second he sees the beacon activate, a message summoning Tron to his office in Alpha Sector's central tower. He knows Tron will arrive quickly. Clu never summons him outside of dire circumstances, and he won't shirk his duties now.

"What's wrong?" Tron asks the second he steps through the door.

Clu turns from the window, keeping his face somber—deliberately suppressing the sharp thrill of intent that threatens to send one corner of his mouth twitching upwards. A subtle thought is all it takes to shut and seal the door, and this time Tron either doesn't notice or isn't inclined to react. Tron's face is dark with concern. His posture is tense with the desire to find the problem, rectify it and—Clu assumes—disappear again before Flynn arrives.

Clu moves down the shallow steps that bisect his office, pacing farther into the room and approaching Tron as unobtrusively as he can. He knows he'll only have one shot at this. He can't afford to show his hand too soon.

"We have a problem," he says, and now he's almost there.

He's at Tron's side. He's close enough to touch.

"But I think I've discovered the solution," Clu says, and paces in a small circle past Tron, around him— _behind_ him—as he adds, "It shouldn't prove too complicated."

"Good," says Tron. "Tell me the parameters." He sounds impatient. Clu smirks now that Tron can't see him, then reaches up and ghosts his fingers over Tron's identity disc. The touch is soft—barely a touch at all—and Tron doesn't immediately notice. Strands of code light beneath Clu's fingers, and he's already isolated the necessary data by the time Tron realizes something is amiss.

"What are you—Ah!" Tron's attempt to turn around ends abruptly as his legs give out beneath him, and he hits his knees with enough force that Clu winces in sympathy.

"Shh," says Clu, dropping down beside him in time to keep Tron from falling forward on his face. "Relax, it's just a temporary paralysis. It will pass soon." Clu is already working, twisting Tron's unresisting arms up behind his back and binding them with bright, unbreakable strands of power that he calls up with a touch. He eases Tron down onto his side, impressed that even paralyzed—however momentarily—Tron is still managing to glare at him with such unmistakable fury. He binds Tron's legs with more of the same bright strands. He might let his hands linger a moment too long, but he still works efficiently enough that by the time Tron can move again, he's helpless to go anywhere.

"What is this?" Tron demands, sounding gruff and betrayed. His circuitry flashes then dims. "What are you doing?"

"Hey, calm down," says Clu, thumb brushing idly back and forth just below one of the bright-lit panels on Tron's leg. "I told you, I found the solution."

"The solution to _what_?" Tron demands raggedly, shifting awkwardly on his side, arms and wrists straining uncomfortably within bonds so strong even the Hero of the Grid can't break them. Clu rises to his feet. He moves to his workstation and presses a panel that slides a shallow drawer out of the sleek, black desk.

He removes the single item that the drawer contains, holding it casually in one hand as he crosses back to Tron's side and drops smoothly to his knees.

Tron blinks at the item in Clu's hand—a long, thin length of dark material, unlit, nondescript—and then raises his eyes as he asks, "Am I malfunctioning?"

"No," says Clu. "But I'm going to help you anyway."

"I don't understand," says Tron. Wariness has crept gradually into his voice and a new uncertainty darkens his features.

"You will," Clu promises, reaching forward with efficient purpose. Before Tron can react, Clu pulls the length of fabric taut and forces it past Tron's lips. Tron jerks back, but Clu moves faster, knotting the material at the nape of Tron's neck and securing the gag firmly in place.

Tron tries to speak, and though the syllables get lost behind the gag, his anger still comes through loud and clear. Clu smiles and thinks that, just maybe, he could come to understand Flynn's fascination after all.

"Relax," he says, setting his hand on Tron's shoulder and then trailing it down the length of Tron's bicep. He could almost pretend the contact is meant to be reassuring. "Believe it or not, I'm doing this for you."

Tron tosses his head. Rebellious and angry.

Clu smiles, and knows he's already won.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Flynn is surprised when he steps through the front door of his Grid facsimile arcade and finds no one waiting for him.

Not that it _never_ happens—sometimes Clu is busy with repairs or Tron is mid-patrol—but the Grid seemed calm enough when he left. Despite his final, disastrous conversation with Tron, Flynn is still surprised to step out into the street and find himself alone.

Well. Nearly alone. There's the usual bustle of programs, busy and moving along the street, and Flynn inclines his head in greeting at the ones that notice his presence.

He reaches the sector's central tower on foot. Clu's office is the logical place to start.

"Flynn," says Clu, standing and greeting him before Flynn can even ask what's up. "I'm glad you're here. I have something for you."

Flynn blinks, surprised and vexed, and follows Clu to a closed door in the far corner of the room.

"I don't understand," Flynn says. "Isn't this your bedroom?"

"Obviously," says Clu. Mischief glints in his eyes. "Go inside. You'll understand when you see what I collected for you. I promise you'll have complete privacy."

His words only leave Flynn more confused than he started, but he nods and presses the panel beside the door. He steps through and hears the nearly indiscernible swish of the door sealing shut behind him. There's an extra click and beep, and he knows the door is locked.

His eyes adjust quickly to the near total darkness, and then a distinctive pattern of light draws his gaze to Clu's bed.

" _Tron_?" he says, crossing the room in quick strides and trying to figure out what's going on. He realizes as he approaches that Tron isn't just lying on his side, he's also restrained—bright lines of light cross his legs, and his arms where they disappear behind him. "What the hell, man?" Flynn says as he drops to his knees on the mattress beside Tron.

Tron doesn't answer, and for a moment Flynn can't figure out why. Then he realizes Tron _can't_ respond—in the dim light they're both giving off he can just make out the dark fabric of the gag forcing Tron silent.

Flynn's hands reach for Tron instinctively. There's no reason for his fingers to ghost across the sharp, cool lines of Tron's circuits as he moves to untie the gag. Tron's whole body gives an involuntary shiver at the unnecessary contact, and it sends an eager pulse of sensation curling beneath Flynn's skin. Jesus Christ, the thing he wants to do—

And revelation hits him so sharply he gasps a quiet, " _Oh_ ," when he finally puts it together.

This is Clu's idea of a gift. ' _You need to show him he's wrong_ ,' comes Clu's voice in Flynn's head. He can practically see Clu's eyes smirking at him, sharp and knowing. He suddenly feels lightheaded.

"Are you okay?" he asks as he pulls the strip of fabric from Tron's mouth and tosses it aside. He's not sure why he's asking—of course Tron is okay. Clu may be a conniving son of a bitch, but he wouldn't _hurt_ Tron.

"I'm fine," Tron says as soon as he can speak. His voice is lower than usual, thick with gravel, and the sound of it sends a fresh thrill of want through Flynn's blood.

He resists the urge to do anything stupid and instead shifts on the bed so that he can reach Tron's legs. He sets a hand high on Tron's thigh, where the highest strand of power crosses before looping lower and twisting around Tron's knees and calves. Tron shivers again at the touch, and Flynn can feel Tron's eyes drilling into the side of his face as he traces the contours of the strand with his fingers, searching out the weak spots.

Turns out there aren't any.

"That's damn good workmanship," Flynn murmurs admiringly. It still crumbles beneath his palm when he disrupts the code, and he lets his touch trail lower, down the length of Tron's leg, then back up again, dissolving the glowing fibers as he goes.

When he finishes, he finds Tron watching him with wide eyes, heated and bright and—for a brief moment—pulsing with a sharp blue light. The lit panels of Tron's body give a surge to the same rhythm, and even though Tron's legs are free, Flynn doesn't take his hand back. He shifts higher on the bed instead, closer along Tron's side, and traces a line over Tron's hip—lets his fingers tease the small squares of light that decorate the front of Tron's armor.

Tron's breath stutters unevenly, and he looks every bit as dazed as Flynn is starting to feel.

It's not conscious thought guiding Flynn's movements as he leans in and presses his lips to Tron's.

Tron reacts instantly, jerking back in an unsteady motion and ducking his head—staring down at the surface of the bed instead of meeting Flynn's eyes. He looks flustered, the T-shaped sequence of lights on his chest pulsing erratically as his throat works in an anxious swallow.

Flynn has spent enough time on the Grid to know the tells when he sees them. Tron is turned on. He _wants_ this, just as badly as Flynn does. And even with everything Clu told him, Flynn doesn't understand why they can't just _do_ this. Maybe he's never been with a computer program before, but he knows damn well he can make it good.

He looks down at Tron now, and there's guilty defeat in the way the program lies curled on his side. There's anxious tension in the way his arms strain at his glowing bonds, wrists twisting futilely behind him.

"Why won't you let me kiss you?" Flynn asks. Tron's eyes fly to his face and lock there with a smoldering intensity, but he doesn't answer the question.

Flynn leans in again, but he moves slowly this time, maintaining eye contact as he invades Tron's space. He closes his eyes when he feels the soft give of Tron's mouth beneath his. He pushes gently but insistently to put Tron on his back, to settle him against the pillows as Flynn hovers in his space and touches him with unrepentant hands.

Tron doesn't break away from the kiss a second time, but he doesn't submit either. His lips don't part at the inquisitive touch of Flynn's tongue.

Flynn makes a frustrated sound low in his throat, and even though putting any distance between them makes his chest tighten unpleasantly, he draws back far enough to speak.

"Open your mouth for me," he whispers.

Tron trembles beneath his hands, and when Flynn kisses him again he parts his lips and lets Flynn inside.

Flynn tries to be gentle, but it's a losing battle. His self control is a messy broken thing he abandoned somewhere miles behind this moment, and the kiss quickly transforms into something deep, dirty—rough and claiming—as Flynn shifts closer along Tron's side and then moves to straddle him. His weight pushes Tron more firmly back against the mattress, and he lets his hands drift hungrily across Tron's arms, his ribs, his stomach.

He feels the uneven tremble of Tron's chest beneath his palms, and eventually Flynn has to pull back and breathe. He resents the fact more than a little—he's in a computer, for god's sake, why on earth should he need _air_ —but he takes the opportunity to look down at Tron and finds Tron staring back.

"Don't," Tron whispers in a voice so soft Flynn almost thinks he imagined it.

"Why not?" Flynn murmurs. His fingers play deliberately across Tron's circuits, teasing the brightest panels and drawing a shocky gasp from Tron's throat.

"You're a User," Tron says, voice fractionally stronger.

"And you're a program."

"Exactly." Tron twists beneath Flynn, obviously struggling against the strands of power still binding his arms. Flynn presses a hand flat against Tron's chest—presses him still. Tron looks up at him in quiet disbelief.

"Users aren't gods, Tron. _I'm_ not a god."

Tron doesn't respond. Flynn somehow doesn't think his point has gotten across.

But he has more immediate concerns at the moment than an existential debate. Concerns centering around the throb of want beneath his skin, the way he can make Tron gasp and shudder under his hands, the heavy heat between his legs as his own body responds to the heady sensation of having Tron pinned beneath him.

"We both want this," says Flynn, palm sliding higher along Tron's chest, fingers tracing the sequence of lights at the base of Tron's throat. Tron inhales sharply, back arching in pleasure as Flynn sends a deliberate trickle of power through the touch and into Tron's circuits. "We can _have_ this, Tron. The only thing stopping us is you."

" _Flynn_ ," Tron gasps as Flynn presses a finger to the square at the center of the T-shaped configuration.

Flynn leans closer, leans down over Tron's body, nuzzles at Tron's cheek and whispers, "I can make you feel so good."

Tron's body shakes sharply beneath him, and Flynn nips at Tron's ear—kisses a trail along his jaw, his throat, all the way to the neckline of his armor. The he moves further and presses a kiss to that center panel of light.

Electricity flares on his tongue as he parts his lips and indulges in a taste of what he's been craving. Tron cries out, bucks beneath Flynn's weight, and Flynn licks lower, finds the next panel, marvels at the way this simple contact is enough to make Tron writhe and fall apart beneath him.

His hands move restlessly over Tron's body, and he adds a new kind of power now—one meant to disrupt instead of excite. He feels patches of Tron's armor come apart beneath his touch, material crumbling away to useless pixels that scatter and vanish, and he trails his palms purposefully over the remaining material until Tron's upper body is a whole lot more naked than not.

He finally sits back to take in his handiwork, and the sight makes his cock jump eagerly, anticipation singing like hunger in his blood.

"Jesus," he murmurs.

On Tron's naked chest is an intricate pattern of circuits—designs that don't show through the darker, more streamlined armor of this new Grid. The lines of the circuits are familiar—they match exactly the contours Flynn remembers from Tron's armor in the old system. He imagines they usually look blue, but at the moment they're flashing a desperate sequence of pink and purple, excited and barely contained.

Tron's face looks stunned and lost, pleasure overwhelming his features as he stares up at Flynn.

Flynn smiles, eager heat and a sharp glint in his eyes, and he sacrifices a moment to shrug out of his jacket and yank his t-shirt over his head. Tron's eyes follow the movement, quiet and awed and still a little bit lost. Flynn knows it must be strange, the sight of a naked chest without any lines of light circuiting the skin.

"Do you want to touch me?" Flynn asks. Christ he wants the answer to be yes.

"Please," Tron breathes. He's still straining against his bonds, but it's different now. He's straining to get closer. He's arching towards Flynn with new desperation, and Flynn reaches for him now, wraps his fingers around Tron's biceps and feels the electric crumbling of fibers falling away beneath his touch. He leans closer, kisses Tron again, as he slides his hands further down Tron's arms—behind Tron's back, towards his wrists—and he dissolves both power strands and sleeves along the way.

The instant Tron's hands are free, he reaches for Flynn, yanks him down hard so that they're pressed chest to chest, one long line of contact, and Flynn groans into Tron's mouth. Flynn's hips stutter, seeking friction, and his pants feel too tight, his whole body is a chaotic mess of heat, he wants everything at once, _fuck_ —

He breaks from the kiss and takes a deep, steadying breath. He needs to get it together if he's going to accomplish anything more coordinated than just rubbing one off against Tron's hip, and he's been fantasizing about this far too long to be satisfied with an awkward round of dry humping.

He sits back and lets his fingers trace idle patterns along Tron's circuits. The sounds his actions draw from Tron's throat are intoxicating—desperate and eager—and he lets one of his hands trail lower without letting up. He dissolves more of Tron's armor—bares his stomach, his thighs, and finally, _finally_ the vital apex between Tron's legs.

He's not surprised to discover Tron has an incredibly human looking cock. He _is_ a little surprised it's not hard.

Then again, Flynn knows enough about programs to know this isn't how they do things. It's not a question of biology. It's a question of programming and code. This will be unfamiliar territory for Tron. Flynn will have to show him how Users do things.

Flynn considers their positions for a moment, and shifts his weight to one leg so that he can slip a knee between Tron's thighs—then follows it with the other, until he's braced on his arms above Tron, with Tron's legs bracketing his body, Tron's expression one of confused wonder.

"You're gonna love this," Flynn promises. He lowers himself to one elbow and presses a quick kiss to Tron's shoulder.

Then he wraps his fingers around the length of Tron's cock and gives a single, firm stroke. He doesn't add any extra power to the touch yet—he wants to see if this works without the extra help.

Tron's eyes squeeze shut and he makes a sharp, choked sound as his hips buck forward. His cock begins to stiffen, and Flynn feels a smug smile twisting his features as he gives another purposeful tug and feels Tron harden in his grasp.

"That's it," Flynn murmurs. "Just like that." His own cock is becoming insistent, and Flynn relinquishes his hold long enough to open his fly and relieve some of the pressure. Tron's eyes open at the moment's respite, and he regards Flynn, bright and close, their faces so near Flynn could count Tron's eyelashes if he wanted to.

"Fuckin' _beautiful_ ," Flynn says, and Tron moans as Flynn's hand closes back around him.

Flynn forces himself to focus as he strokes Tron to hardness. He forces himself to think this through and figure out exactly what he wants. Tron is pliant beneath his hands. He's finally along for the ride, wholeheartedly, which means there are any number of things they could do for each other.

But as he teases Tron to the edge, then backs off without letting him come, Flynn realizes that, more than anything, what he wants—what he _needs_ —is to fuck Tron here and now.

He has to let go again in order to derez more of Tron's suit and armor. There's not much left, but he does away with every last inch of the material still covering Tron's thighs and ass. He revels in the touching and retraces every step just so he can feel the bare skin where pixilated fabric used to be.

Tron is watching him again. There's sharp curiosity in his eyes as he watches Flynn raise his fingers to his own mouth and suck on them until they're slick.

Flynn holds Tron's gaze as he reaches back down, reaches between Tron's legs—never doubting that he'll find what he's after, because there are no more surprises here—and presses a finger against the tight, waiting rim of Tron's ass.

"This might hurt a little," Flynn warns softly. "Tell me if you need me to stop." Tron nods, and the trust in his eyes is overwhelming.

Flynn presses in.

Tron grunts, low and startled. His eyes snap shut, and he gasps as Flynn presses his finger deeper. His hands grab Flynn's arms tightly enough to bruise, but he doesn't say 'stop', and Flynn adds a second finger.

There's not as much resistance as he expects. Tron is tight—every bit as tight as Flynn would have predicted—but there's a smoothness of motion Flynn wasn't expecting. There's no dry chafe, despite the fact that spit is an insufficient lubricant at best, and Flynn has to think that through for a moment before he realizes that, in a weird way, it makes sense.

This is the Grid. Everything is brighter, faster, smoother. The rules of the real world don't apply. The implications are staggering.

He returns quickly to the moment—to the sounds Tron is making, shocky and rough and awash in pleasure. He twists his fingers inside Tron, loosening him up, fucking him with two digits and then, a moment later, three. Feeling the gradual give of tight muscle as he prepares Tron's body for the wider invasion that comes next.

He kisses Tron as he withdraws his fingers, darts his tongue past Tron's lips as he shifts pants and boxers farther down his own hips—as he pulls out his cock, thick and flushed and eager. He thinks about spitting in his palm, adding a little more fluid to ease the way, but in the end he decides it won't make enough difference. Besides, Tron's mouth is yielding and needy beneath his, and Flynn's not sure he could pull away right now if he tried.

He lines up, nudges forward with the head of his cock, and finally presses inside.

The kiss breaks when Tron throws his head back, mouth falling slack on a wordless gasp. Flynn's own breath punches out of him in a sharp exhale, and he thrusts forward, slotting his cock deeper, groaning at the overwhelming sensation of Tron's body taking him in.

" _Flynn_ ," Tron gasps, and Flynn curls forward, burying his face against Tron's throat as his hips find a rough rhythm, thrusting deep and then withdrawing before driving deeper still. Tron's whole body jostles sharply with every thrust, and his thighs tighten around Flynn's hips, his fingers digging dark bruises into Flynn's biceps.

"Say it again," Flynn growls, biting at the skin just below Tron's ear.

"Flynn," Tron breathes, arching back farther, baring his throat for Flynn's mouth.

" _Fuck_ ," Flynn gasps. He trails an uncoordinated string of kisses down the length of Tron's throat—down past the first bright rows of circuits to the T-shaped pattern of lights.

" _Ah_!" Tron shouts, wordless and indistinct, as Flynn trails his tongue over the squares of circuitry. Flynn reaches between their bodies, fingers trailing low on Tron's stomach before curling around the straining length of his erection. The circuits beneath Flynn's tongue pulse with power, and he strokes Tron in time with his thrusts, even as his own movements become faster, harder—rough and needy and intense.

God, he's so close he can taste it—or maybe that's just the mounting force of energy beneath his tongue.

Tron loses it first, orgasm shocking through him like an electrical storm that Flynn can feel beneath his own skin. Any hope Flynn has of holding on after that is gone, and he gives one final, forceful thrust, burying himself to the hilt in Tron's body and burying the shout of his own orgasm against Tron's throat.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Clu hasn't left his office. He's locked the door and sealed off the balcony, knows it's his responsibility to make sure Flynn and Tron aren't disturbed.

He's resisted the inappropriate urge to check in on them—though of course his automatic security systems will be recording everything. He'll have to be sure to erase that data later.

When the power surge hits, it disrupts every system and process in his office. Lights flicker, code falls to temporary chaos, and even Clu feels rattled by the intensity of the wave that passes through the tower. His eyes feel strained from the impossible shockwave of light.

His gaze falls to the sealed door, curiosity gnawing at him with almost overpowering force.

Finally he returns his attention to his console, calling up a matrix for the tower and the surrounding buildings and checking for any aftereffects from the surge.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Tron is slow to come around. Flynn lies beside him, propped on one elbow and idly stroking lines of circuitry just to watch them flicker from blue to purple to pink and back to blue again.

He's taken the time to shed the last of his clothes, and to divest Tron of his remaining armor. It's just them, now. Just skin and circuits and the soft rise and fall of Tron's chest as his system slowly reboots.

Tron's eyes are open, but it's still a long stretch of minutes before they blink and come back into focus.

"Hey," says Flynn. Tron swallows. Blinks again. Flynn doesn't stop the quiet exploration of his fingers.

"Flynn," says Tron. His voice sounds rough and spent.

"The one and only," says Flynn. "Are you okay?"

Tron seems to genuinely consider his question, eyes going distant for a moment in a way that makes Flynn think of self-diagnostics and secondary sub-processes. Then Tron's eyes refocus on his face, and he nods an affirmative.

"Good," Flynn murmurs. "I was worried I might've overloaded you there."

Tron reaches up and covers Flynn's hand on his chest, stilling the wandering motion of his fingers. Tron's eyes are full of questions. His face is somber.

"Flynn," he says. "What we just did—"

"What we just did was _good_ ," Flynn interrupts, quiet but firm. "It wasn't wrong, and it wasn't blasphemy. It was just… _us_ , okay?"

Tron's eyes widen fractionally. The panels of light on his chest flare momentarily brighter.

"I need you to be okay with this," Flynn says softly. Tron swallows, tightens his fingers around Flynn's hand. Flynn thinks, for a terrified moment, that Tron is going to say no.

But the moment passes, and Tron nods, and relief rushes through Flynn's chest like a torrent.

He surges forward and captures Tron's mouth in a demanding kiss, thrilling at the way Tron's lips instantly part for him—at the way Tron opens and invites him inside. He licks his way into Tron's mouth, possessive heat curling beneath his skin, and it's all he can do to pull back when what he wants is to blanket Tron's body with his own and touch him everywhere.

Tron is wearing a different expression when Flynn opens his eyes. Warm and hopeful and painfully, openly honest. Flynn touches Tron's face—traces his thumb over the generous curve of Tron's lower lip—and lets his own mouth curl up into a smile.

"So," Flynn says. "What do you think? Would you like to do that again?"


End file.
